Stars
by lilien passe
Summary: Set in 1905, following the defeat of Russia by Japan, Messrs. Jones and Braginski have a surprisingly civil chat about a great number of things, some of them rather nonsensical and others assuredly not.


-Author's Notes-

Man. It has been a while. And it shows. But to celebrate my hopeful return to writing, a gift fic for the amazingly talented and very sweet Puni! She draws the most amazing stuff, and loves Russia/America so… Present!

I AM SORRY THAT NOTHING HAPPENS IN THIS. LIKE AT ALL. IT IS NOT WORTHY AS A PRESENT ;A;

But I hope you enjoy anyway…

_Stars_

"Your tie is crooked."

Alfred's eyebrow twitched as he spoke.

"Oi. I said your tie is crooked."

"And I didn't respond," Alfred said as genially as he could. "Would've thought that signaled an end to the conversation, sahib."

Kirkland snorted and took another sip of coffee, making a face. "Just trying to be helpful, brat. Who the devil wears a clip-on tie, anyway?"

"Someone whose father figure never let him dress himself as a child," Alfred shot back, dumping more sugar into his coffee. He glanced around the small shop and sighed in abject misery. "The hell I get sent here for. Teddy knows I ain't any good at this kinda political maneuverin'."

"Language," Arthur reprimanded, straightening his stupid perfect bow-tie. "And we're here to observe the changing climate. Since it was your nosy self who forced Honda to begin modernizing in the first place, the least you could do is come along to bear witness to the fruits of your… protégé's… labor."

Alfred grinned, the curve of his lips a bit maniacal. "Protégé. Wouldn't go that far. And by 'changin' climate' you mean the fact that dear ol' Hook Nose got the screws put to him by little, soft-spoken Honda, eh? World stage's been flipped on its goddamn axis."

Arthur's eye twitched in a very unsettling way. "Perhaps."

Alfred laughed, the noise loud and foreign-sounding in the dusty tea shop. "Sent all the way to this scrap of tundra just to gloat. Gotta admit that Honda's got diplomatic balls the size of-"

"No more 'ball' talk, I am _begging_ you," Arthur muttered, pulling out a cigarette and quickly lighting it. "You have spent far too much time out in that Vente de la Louisiane. You need a good lesson in the King's English."

Alfred rolled his eyes and grinned. "It's been 'bout a century since that cussed fool Bonnefoy was idiot enough to sign over that land. Get with the times, Kirkland. There's also this little thing called 'steam engines' I should introduce you to. And I speak perfectly fine. If it's good enough for the slaughterhouses in Chicago, it's good enough for me."

Arthur scowled and quickly tapped the ash from his cigarette into Alfred's cup. The white flakes were swallowed whole by the bitter liquid. "Lowering yourself to their level won't get you anywhere, Jones. And forgive me for not wanting to pay any more attention to a house that prides itself on moving livestock from one dusty town to another as some misplaced spectacle of masculinity."

Alfred stared at his ruined coffee, a small frown on his face. "And I love how you think you can intimidate me by usin' four-syllable words. I've got authors and shit like that too now, y'know," he said grumpily as he waved the haggard-looking waitress over and silently ordered a fresh cup of the swill they tried to pass off as coffee.

"Well your people seem incapable of-"

Arthur immediately stopped speaking as the door to the tea shop opened with the miserable, dulled tinkling of a rusty bell. The British man quickly drained his tea and muttered, "Be a good sport. I'm pulling seniority on you. Deal with Hook Nos-… Braginski yourself while I go write up my report."

Alfred grinned. "What's that, gramps? You scared of Old Man Winter?" His blue eyes flicked to the side, carefully studying Ivan as the hulking man ordered his coffee in a light, sing-song way. Alfred laughed and waved a hand. "Skedaddle then, you Nancy. I'll take care of this."

Arthur just muttered something else unfit for polite society under his breath before grabbing his overcoat and all but fleeing the dingy shop.

The American, however, was the epitome of calm as he relaxed back in his chair, emptying the rest of the rather mealy sugar into his cup.

"Is this seat taken?"

Alfred tilted his head back to stare up the Russian, trying not to laugh at how freakishly large the man's nostrils were from this angle. His eyes darted to the rest of the shop – all empty chairs and tables – but all he did was grin. "Nah. Free as a bird. Why don't you sit yourself down?"

Ivan smiled and immediately sat, tugging off his muffler and coat and carefully setting them on his chair. "My hearty thanks," he said in his soft, lilting voice. "It's rather unusual to see you in my house, Mister…"

"Jones," Alfred prompted the other nation, raising an eyebrow. "What, don't remember me?"

Ivan laughed and cradled his mug of coffee. "Ah… so many new faces so quickly and a full plate of my own affairs. I tend to lose track after a while."

Alfred's eyebrow headed further north. "…I'm gonna be a big deal, y'know," he said lightly, sipping at his coffee. "Soon everyone this side of the Equator's gonna be drivin' a Ford automobile and singin' my name. You'll see."

Ivan's smile widened. "Is that so."

"Yeah that's so," Alfred said, starting to get a bit irritated. He smiled to hide it. "Sounds like you don't know from nothin'."

Ivan sipped at his coffee. "My apologizes. I thought your house was merely another wing of that Kirkland fellow's that got a bit out of hand."

Alfred snorted. "Never was," he muttered, his smile fading as he sulked childishly in his seat. "I'm my own person. You heard of New York? Yeah, no one's talkin' 'bout _Old_ York any more, that's for sure."

"And you seem very determined to prove that," Ivan said indulgently, but his violet eyes were studying Alfred's every move with the precision of a surgeon about to make the first cut.

"I don't got _nothin'_ to prove," Alfred said idly, emptying more sugar into his coffee. "These saps on this side of the globe think my cities are trash, but they're just as good. Better, even. You'll see."

"And you speak such impeccable English," Ivan said mildly, the corners of his thin lips curling up behind his coffee mug. "Something else to add to your impressive resume, no doubt."

Alfred glared at the Russian, but then just laughed. "So everyone seems kinda scared of you, huh." He leaned forward, eyes shining behind his glasses. "Makes sense. You're a pretty big guy. Too many turnips, eh?"

"You wound me, Mr. Jones," Ivan said with a small, tittering laugh, but his fingers drummed angrily against the pitted table top.

"Yeah. But y'know, my…er… protégé. Honda. You've probably heard of him." Alfred laughed again as he tossed a newspaper over to the Russian side of the table. Across the top, the headline read in big, black letters, "GALLANT LITTLE JAPAN BLOODIES THE RUSSIAN BEAR."

Ivan stared at the newspaper, his pale eyes skimming the headlines.

The coffee in Ivan's cup trembled a little. Frost gathered on the rim.

Ivan laughed. The trembling stopped.

"A bear, am I?" the Russian said, brushing the paper aside. "Well, I have been called far worse with far fewer letters."

"Yeah, ain't that the kicker?" Alfred said, a triumphant grin on his face. "Now, see, you can't make a cup of Joe worth shit, and you can't keep your sugar bowl stocked, but at least you can make world headlines, right?"

Ivan's long fingers curled around his coffee cup. He smiled. "I suppose, yes."

Alfred leaned back in his chair and pushed up his glasses. "Now, I don't mean to razz you, big guy, but you know how things go." His blue eyes lit up with amusement. "My boss just wants to know how you're takin' this whole… losin' to an island the size of California fiasco."

Ivan tilted his head to the side, his eyes hardening a bit. "Ah yes. California."

Alfred nodded, his grin widening. "Yeah! My state! California!" He looked pleased with himself. "It's gonna be big, I tell you. Everyone'll wanna live there."

Ivan sipped his coffee. "Were there not people living there before?"

Alfred, blinked, and then shifted uneasily in his seat. "Yeah, well… things happen," he said idly, grabbing the empty salt shaker and toying with the lid.

"Unfortunate things," Ivan agreed, his pale eyes curiously fixing on Alfred's fingers. "…Why are you expending energy doing that? It's empty, you know."

"Huh? Oh…" Alfred set the salt shaker down. He stared across the table at Ivan. "So." He grinned. "What kinda joints you got around here? We gotta celebrate in style."

Ivan hummed. "Joints?"

"Yeah. Y'know." Alfred leaned back in his chair. "Gin mills. Bars. Run of the mill establishments where a man can get firmly zozzled."

"…Zozzled?" Ivan's voice was mild, but his pale eyes were unamused. "Surely you must know I'm not overly familiar with your house's… colorful dialects."

"Ah, right. Drunk, then," Alfred said with a laugh, completely oblivious to how his breath was now crystallizing in the frozen air. "Need t'find a better settin' than a dingy coffee hut for this meetin' of nations."

Ivan's thin lips curled up in a smile. "There are many bars. But I know one where we will not be disturbed. Come." He stood, setting his half-full mug of coffee on another table and wrapping his scarf firmly around his neck before heading outside. Alfred snorted and muttered, "Creepy bastard," before he followed the Russian out the door as well.

The snow covered streets were muted as death, and the people wearing tracks in the white were just as silent. Alfred shivered and pulled his threadbare coat tighter against him as icy gusts of wind toyed with his hair. "I-It ever get above f-freezin' here?" he stuttered.

"Of course," Ivan said, walking steadily through the huge snow drifts that Alfred had to hop around. "But not now."

"Damn… and I thought Wisconsin was bad," Alfred muttered, moving a bit closer to the Russian so he could walk in the path the huge man cleared.

"Another place everyone will want to live?" Ivan asked, turning down a narrow street.

Alfred snorted. "Y-Yeah. Everyone'll be clamorin' to move to Madison soon enough," he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "They even got a University there."

"Is that right," Ivan said, his tone genial, that of a disinterested stranger's.

Alfred frowned a bit, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "You got somethin' against universities?"

"On the contrary. I encourage learning in all its forms," Ivan said mildly, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck as the harsh wind threatened to carry it away. He glanced down over his shoulder at the smaller nation. "Surely you have a better winter coat, Mr. Jones? Or have you not been spending much time in Wisconsin lately?"

Alfred hugged the threadbare material to his chest, an unsure look of embarrassment on his face. He wasn't overly familiar with the emotion. It was strange to feel his face flushing, his lips contorting into an apologetic grimace. "I, er-…"

Since when did words fail him.

Alfred straightened up and closed his eyes, picturing the rich fabrics he'd seen earlier that day at the palace. A moment of envy like that of a hundred years ago, when the thought of royalty in his own house had near-seduced him.

He shrugged the silken fabrics off, tugged the canvas around his shoulders, and returned Braginski's smile.

"Clothes don't make the man. And it's got a history! Textile factories in my house are _amazing_, you know that?"

Ivan laughed quietly, a little hop in his step as he avoided an icy puddle.

"Yes, yes. Pity the girls with the long, flaxen hair. The triangles and shirtwaists they struggle so hard to make." Ivan quickly reached up to knock an icicle off a low-hanging awning. Alfred yelped like a startled dog and jumped back, staring at the shattered ice on the ground. He glared up at the Russian, but the man only smiled, his pale eyes genuinely amused.

"Those are rather dangerous. They fall when you don't expect them."

Alfred snorted, clutching his hands behind his back so the older nation couldn't see how his fingers were still fluttering with adrenaline. "So you predict the future? I hear there's a lotta gypsies in your house. Pick stuff up from them?"

Ivan threw back his head, mouth bared to the sky as he laughed. The stillness and quiet of the sound was disjointed, far too soft for such a gesture. Alfred took a little step back, mildly taken-aback at the sudden outburst. But Ivan merely continued to stare up at the sky.

"Gypsies! Peasants and the poor!"

The Russian laughed again and gently placed his hand on the small of Alfred's back, pushing him to the side, through a small door cut out of brick and rotten mortar.

"Fodder for your textile factories. The gypsies and the children. We have arrived."

Alfred stumbled forward, his glasses fogging up in the sudden warmth of the bar's stuffy air.

His back was burning from the slight touch.

He turned around, taking in the slightly-upscale surroundings, a surprised look on his face. He rubbed his back. "Huh. Whoda known there'd be a diamond underneath all this cussed snow," he said approvingly, taking a seat at the bar. He rapped his knuckles against the bartop and bounced in the cushy seat. "Mahogany?"

Ivan shrugged and took a seat next to the younger nation. "Perhaps. I must admit that botany is not my strong suit."

"Neither's mine. But when you gotta bunch of loggers comin' in, knowin' what's on the train bed's always good." Alfred glanced around at the other patrons, his blue eyes narrowing behind his misty glasses. The humans were frozen in their conversations. Not literally, of course. No magic here, but their words were running in slow circles. As useless as the icicles outside. They wouldn't be bothered.

The mirrored wall behind the bar caught his attention, and he carefully studied it, along with the hundreds of colored bottles lined up like good little soldiers on the shelves.

The barkeep slowly shuffled over, offering only a slight nod to Braginsky, who smiled fondly in return. There was a bottle of vodka in front of them a moment later, two pristine shot glasses flanking it like empty headed children.

Braginski reached out to undo the cap, his long fingers cradling the bottle gently as he poured them each a shot. He handed one of the wee glasses to Alfred, his slightly crooked nose wrinkling as the fumes from the alcohol drifted up, tingeing the air.

"Guest's honor. The top of the bottle."

Alfred picked up the tiny glass, the smooth surface odd underneath his calloused fingertips. He raised the glass towards Braginski and then shot the drink back. It burned like hellfire all the way down and settled like a dark stone in his gut. He slammed the glass back on the table, letting out a war whoop that made the humans turn.

"Hot _damn_, Hook Nose! Where you been hidin' this stuff?"

Ivan smiled graciously and tipped his drink towards Alfred before likewise pouring it back. His glass made a quiet 'tink' as it hit the polished wood.

"This bar, and these drinks, are rather special. That is where I've been hiding it." The Russian poured them each another. "I must admit, I am rather surprised to find another with a ravenous taste for spirits."

Alfred shrugged lightly and took his drink with eager fingers, downing it quickly. He licked his lips, a thin line of the fire snaking down his chin. "Well. Half of me, at any rate." He stuck out his empty glass, wiggling it a bit. "Don't get legit on me now."

Ivan tilted his head curiously to the side, his scarf slipping around his neck. "Half of you?" He pushed his own drink towards Alfred.

The younger nation nodded, swiping his finger over the polished bartop to catch a few spilled drops. He brought his fingers to his mouth, childishly licking the rough pads before sipping at his drink again. "Mm. Half. Not quite down the middle." He laughed, tapping his foot against the barstool. "I take that drink, and part of me wants to throw it right back up and get my sorry ass to a church, y'know? But the other half… it's soothed somehow. It's a sad and lonely part of me, I guess, but quiet so that's all that matters. Can't get nothin' done with a bunch of voices tuggin' you in different directions."

He pushed the empty glass to Braginski. The Russian smiled and pushed the mostly-full bottle towards Alfred with the point of one finger. It barely made a sound as it moved.

"I know something about different voices," the Russian said lightly. "The streets and palace both sing their tunes."

The humans fell silent, blue and brown and pale black eyes fixed on their Nation and his honored guest.

Alfred's mind was focused on the bottle in front of him, but even with his gently waning senses could feel the other nation's people closing in on him, wanting to hear his own story.

He shrugged them off.

The bottle was his.

"Well. Bonnefoy could probably tell you somethin' or two 'bout different voices. Had a case of near schizophrenia what when I was kickin' ol' George to the curb. From what I heard, anyway. Stuff across the sea's hard to get invested in most of the time."

Ivan didn't show his disappointment, save for a quiet hum and a slump of his shoulders. "A pity you are rather tight-lipped about your own. Near case of schizophrenia."

Alfred lowered the bottle, picking at the faded label with a blunted fingernail. "Well… wounds take long t'heal," he mumbled, licking his lips again. "Loosin' Abe the way I did… when someone close to you like that gets taken by a rebellious skin flake or hair follicle, you'll know. Feels lower than dirt an' worse than sin."

Ivan laughed, lacing his fingers underneath his chin as he rested against the bar. "Hair follicle?"

Alfred nodded slowly, his lips curling into a smile as the world spun. "That's what it's like. A single cell of you can grow and change so fast. Take everythin'-… take everythin' away an' make it all different…" He glanced up at Braginski, blue eyes clouded behind thick glass. "…You a God fearin' man, Braginski?"

The bar patrons went back to their games as Ivan chuckled quietly. "I fear a lot, I must admit. The heathen ants that strike at me from across the sea, the men who think themselves my puppet strings... Why do you ask?"

Alfred sighed into the empty bottle.

"I fear God every day. Kinda funny, fearin' God when we won't…" He lowered his hand to rest against the bar top, making a squishing noise with his tongue. "No guts spillin' or nothin'. Don't expire like they do."

Ivan smiled indulgently and patted the bar stool's high back in lieu of touching the nation. "You are young still. With age grows an ambivalence towards death and those invisible threads our… follicles… fear so deeply in their little hairy souls."

Alfred burst out laughing, his head slipping from the bottle to land heavily on the counter. He barely felt it. "Hairy souls! Lord in heaven, you got some strange thoughts spinnin' in that empty noggin of yours. 'Course I got some empty parts of my own, so… brothers in wide, open spaces, eh, Ivan?"

The Russian's hand slipped off the stool, mild surprise making his fingers curl and lose their precarious balance. Ivan fell quiet, staring fixedly at the young nation's face as he mumbled happily into the bar top, the stampeding hooves of cattle and the whirl of machines in his voice making the mahogany rumble.

Ivan took the bottle, emptying the dregs into his own cup. The last drink for the host.

"My name sounds strange from you, mixed with so many other things," he said curiously, tugging the scarf high up around his nose. One by one the human patrons stood, holding hands with their wives and fiancées and lovers for the night, whispering softly as they left. The bartender pushed another bottle across the table and then hung his apron up, disappearing through the door.

Alfred's laugh drifted up from the countertop, a drunken thing staggering about on foal's legs. He lifted his head, glasses askew.

"'m gonna be a big deal, y'know," he said firmly, eyes dimming as the vodka strangled his mind. "Bigger than I am now. Got… got trains… 'n mortars. 'N people to carry them with."

Ivan tapped his finger against the bar, idly watching the child yell to the world without lifting his voice. "Is that right," he said quietly, letting the scarf settle around his neck again. "I suppose the thought has crossed your mind that we all carry those things as well."

Alfred laughed, his head resting against the polished wood again as his eyes slipped shut. "Old fogies. All ya are. Slouchin' backwards into tar pits…"

Ivan laughed quietly, burying his fingers and his mind in his drink, the clear liquid tampering the urge to throttle. He sat alone at the bar, discretely moving his elbow as the puddle of drool that was slowly conquered the bartop. He sipped at his vodka, clinging his glass against the empty American's before every swig, trying to topple it over with the slightest touch. He stayed in the rustic company of his guest and his own mirrored reflection for as long as he could, violet eyes never leaving the bottle. But the call of the palace was too strong. By the time the sun set, his seat was empty.

Alfred awoke to an empty bar and a snowdrift blown in through the open door.

He carefully detached his face from the smooth surface underneath his cheek, his mouth full of cotton and his head not much better. He groaned softly, hoping there was someone around to hear his plea. Only the muffled echo responded. It wasn't very sympathetic.

His senses slowly returned to him, nausea at the forefront. Then sight – what little could be seen in the stark moonlight – then touch. He started to gingerly stand, but then bolted upright as he suddenly felt something wrapped tight around his throat, cutting into his skin and making the dull room spin like Ferris' Wheel.

His desperate fingertips encountered nothing but slippery cloth.

Alfred stood up, knocking his stool to the ground as he stared wildly into the mirror that housed the bar's spirits. He slowly raised his hand, needing to feel to reassure himself of his reality.

He slowly pulled the scarf off, letting the rich, silken fabric pool in his hands like a patterned serpent. Rough fingers touched the cloth, calluses catching on the delicate fibers.

It was a long time before Alfred could bear to let it go, some part of his spirit howling for the luxury and opulence he held only an arm's length away. He carefully folded it and set it aside, his blue eyes raking across the bartop, where a full bottle of vodka and a small piece of paper awaited his inspection.

He set the bottle aside, scraping the thin piece of paper off the wood with clumsy hands. He read the neat script – too neat for one used to writing the letters every day. Rigid in its complexity. His lips formed the words as he read, habit born of fairy-tale reading from infant days.

"My Dear… Friend…"

Alfred's voice caught on the word, but he was stubborn, and he pressed on, taking in the words like a succumbing addict.

"For the sad and lonely part of you, I leave a gift. To lift your spirit and burn your soul. Find solace in this, a small thread to bind you to this time, so that when you shut the doors of your house against the world and stretch out arms from behind your fortress walls, you can remember. We are simple creations, Alfred. Born and bound to the resolve of our most basic structure. We all struggle against it, believing in independence of thought and action. But we are slaves to observation. Distant, powerless gods who can merely watch our eternal bodies twitch and writhe against our will while we boast of power.

It will be a pleasure to watch you fight and succumb to this fate. Yelling all the while, I am sure, of the brilliance of your own agency.

The scarf you may keep for when you visit your Wisconsin. Please buy a coat before your next visit. It would not do for you catch a cold.

Yours in Friendship,

Ivan Braginski

Post Script.

I am sorry for your friend Abraham. I am sure he is with Him now, reveling in His grace."

Alfred licked his chapped lips in vein, feeling them crack and spit at the slight touch. His saliva burned the wounds.

He folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket. The bottle found a home in the other.

He turned and walked out of the bar, wrapping the scarf around his neck as he went. There was a challenge in his stride, the walls blistering with the force of his arrogance.

Alfred shoved his way out the door, welcoming the frost laden air. The snow melted around him, soaking his boots to the core. He could feel the eyes of the nation upon him as he walked as a predator among armed sheep. They parted for him, wary and hostile towards his presence, but too weak to expel the foreign object.

Alfred ducked his head, covering his mouth and nose with the scarf to muffle his laughter, the smell of dark tobacco from the cloth stinging his nostrils.

Distant gods indeed. The city was shaking to its core from his very presence, and yet apathetic in its response.

His heavy footprints were covered with snowdrifts by the time he reached the end of the street, every trace of his visit vanishing silently, buried under the winter.

But the vodka was heavy in his pocket. The scarf a gentle, welcoming noose around his throat.

Alfred tipped his head back, staring up at the bright stars, made clearer in the cold air.

"Forty five of you I got now. Bet he thinks a worthless god like me's gonna stop with that."

He grinned, his teeth flashing white as he held his hand up to the sky, blacking out the stars, catching as many of them as he could.

Alfred F. Jones tightened his fist around the letter in his pocket, a boyish look of excitement on his face as he stood in the middle of the foreign house and stared up at the painted ceiling.

That night, the streets and city drew close, steeling themselves and their beloved occupants against the distant bright stars that slowly plucked their own from the blackening sky.

One by one.


End file.
